


While Sherlock was Dead

by FingletonTwiglet



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, F/M, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mystrade (if you squint), Oral Sex, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-17
Updated: 2013-12-17
Packaged: 2018-01-04 23:53:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 18,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1087125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FingletonTwiglet/pseuds/FingletonTwiglet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My first attempt at fanfic - be gentle!  Bit late in the day for this as it will be defunct as soon as series 3 starts but never mind!  Comments welcomed (though I'll be hiding behind the sofa).</p><p>How John manages (or doesn't) after Sherlock's fall.  Then how he manages with his return.  Ridiculously domestic fluffiness, with a degree of angst, not a lot of substance, despite the word count!  Explicit tag applies to the last chapter only so don't read that if M/M is not your thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own these characters, thanks to Conan Doyle, Moffat, Gatiss et al for them.
> 
> All errors are mine. Sorry for my tendency to rather long sentences!
> 
> For Lou – who, like Sherlock, does NOT have the emotional range of a teaspoon, no matter what she says. She started me writing. Thank you for proof reading this, sorry I didn't give you enough time to finish! 
> 
> For Suzi – thank you for introducing me to the marvels of tumblr, now I know I’m not alone, there are many other loons out there!
> 
> I may have more stories to tell, but it took about 6 months for me to sort this one, so don't hold your breath!  
> If you're so inclined, you can follow me on tumblr: http://beccaoftheglen.tumblr.com/ but don't expect excitement. I post at non-regular intervals, a mix of knitting, Sherlock and other wtf is life type things. All a bit minimal and random.

John couldn’t really remember the first few days after…after. He remembered the funeral, that had been awful, and short snapshots of the days around it, but he didn’t know what order things happened or how he got to wherever he had been. Everything was just subsumed by the terrible pain, the loss of someone who had become the centre of his life. There were clearer moments later, when Mrs Hudson tried to tidy the flat for instance. He didn’t know he had so much anger in him; typical Sherlock, even when he was dead he could drive John to total distraction. He’d almost thrown her out of the door; he’d never forget the look on her face, so shocked and hurt. But he didn’t care, he didn’t care about anything. He’d gone into Sherlock’s room then, the first time he’d gone inside it since Sherlock had been there. He sat on the edge of his bed, fingering the sheets, still rumpled up in a heap, just as Sherlock had left them. Eventually the tears had started, finally, the tears he’d been waiting for. He’d curled up into a ball, clutching the pillows and cried himself to sleep, the first decent sleep he’d had for some time. Of course he’d woken screaming; too late to stop the awful fall again. Every night was the same, the voice on the phone, the figure on the roof, that lean into nothing and then the fall. The seconds stretched out into an eternity and just as the body was going to hit the ground John would start awake, shouting, reaching out in a futile attempt to prevent the inevitable.

The flat had been surrounded by the press since Moriarty’s campaign against Sherlock had started, more so after their deaths. John hadn’t been able to leave, even if he’d wanted to. Greg had come round several times, Sarah had visited and even Mycroft had put in an appearance, all trying to get John to talk, or eat. He did neither. He barely left the sofa, staring round at the detritus of Sherlock’s life, unable to believe that he was no longer there, that such a force of nature had ended.

One morning, after a trip to the loo, John caught a glimpse of his reflection. It was only a split second but it was one of those terrifying instances where you see yourself absolutely clearly with none of the usual filters which soften life’s sharp edges. He stepped backwards and looked again. He was alarmed by what he saw; he was gaunt, unshaven with dark circles under his eyes. He didn’t remember his hair being that grey before but maybe it was just that it was longer than usual. And when had he gotten so old? In that instant he snapped out of his lethargy. He took a long, hot shower, shaved and dressed for the first time in he didn’t know how long. He spent the rest of the day cleaning, washing and generally removing the evidence of his prolonged inertia. He looked out of the front window, somewhat surprised to find no sign of any reporters outside. Having cleared the various biological hazards out of the fridge, no longer able to distinguish between what had been food and what had been one of Sherlock’s experiments, he went out for fresh supplies. When he returned he found Greg waiting on the stairs, he was carrying a bag whose contents smelled enticing. John’s stomach grumbled loudly as he opened the door to the flat, he smiled sheepishly at Greg.

“Come in.”

Greg looked surprised; John supposed that was fair, he hadn’t actually behaved like a human being for a while so it must have been a bit of a shock to see him doing something normal for a change.

They walked upstairs in silence; John let them into the flat and put the shopping in the kitchen.

“Tea?” he asked, Greg nodded.

John put the kettle on and put the shopping away while it boiled. It was reassuring, making tea, doing normal things. He didn’t have to think too hard, he moved automatically, getting out cups, opening the new box of tea bags. Soon the comforting smell of Typhoo was filling the kitchen. He took the mugs into the lounge and sat next to Greg on the sofa. Lestrade had been busy himself, getting out a tantalising selection of items from the curry house round the corner. John tried to remember the last time he’d eaten a proper meal; he gave up and started helping himself.

“Sooo…how are you? You look a lot better.”

“Hm, that probably wouldn’t be difficult. I’m…” John struggled to find an appropriate term, “improving.”

Greg smiled at that. “I’m glad to hear it. We’ve been worried about you.”

John didn’t know what to say to that, so he occupied himself with eating. After a few minutes he stopped, feeling a bit queasy. That was what not eating properly did for you, when you finally did eat, you couldn’t manage more than a few mouthfuls at a time.

Greg frowned, “You look a little green around the gills, was this a bad idea?” He gestured at the food.

“No, no, it was a brilliant idea. It’s normal, when someone’s been…when someone doesn’t eat properly for a while, the body can’t cope with a lot of food in one go. I’ll have a break for now, maybe I’ll manage a bit more later.” Greg nodded, noticeably slowing his own rate of eating, he wanted to make sure there was plenty left for John if he wanted it. “So, how are you? I’m really sorry I haven’t returned any of your calls, I…”

Greg cut him off with a wave of his fork, “I understand, you were pretty out of it for a while.” He paused, clearly not sure how much John could cope with, concerned he might return to his brooding silence and withdraw from the world again.

“It’s OK, Greg, I’m back, I think. I’m not great, but I don’t think I’ll be…like I was…again. Please, tell me what’s going on with you, give me something else to think about than how bloody quiet this flat is without…” his voice shook a little and faded out.

Greg stepped in and began filling John in on what had happened in the last few weeks. It hadn’t been pretty by the sound of it. Moriarty’s death had left a lot of questions behind, especially for the press, they had pounced on Sherlock’s suicide as proof of his guilt and were having a whale of a time assassinating his personality and career. Greg clenched his fists while talking about this, barely suppressing his anger. He changed his tack when he saw John’s face, the pain and slight panic showing in his pinched expression. Greg moved to less distressing territory, talking about Mycroft and how he was investigating Moriarty’s connections and trying to neutralise them. Lestrade was doing what he could, but was limited by the amount of pressure and scrutiny he was under after the whole Sherlock scandal. He’d managed to hang on to his job, just, but his every move was watched and analysed and it was obviously taking its toll.

As Greg continued, peppering his narrative with amusing anecdotes of Anderson’s ineptitude and Donovan’s outrage at the world in general. John managed to pick at a few more morsels of food every few minutes and listened attentively to Greg’s tales. He relaxed gradually and felt a little bit more normality return to his life. He smiled, normal was good, for now.

Over the next few weeks John began to rebuild the bridges he’d burnt with all of his old friends. Mrs. Hudson was so delighted to see him out and about; she just waved away his apologies for his previous behaviour. This seemed to be most people’s reaction; they forgave him for his terrible treatment of them and welcomed him back to the real world with open arms. He started working back at the surgery, just a few hours a week at first, then increasing as time went on. Life was a lot easier if he kept busy. He met up with Greg regularly, at the pub or one of their flats. There was usually alcohol involved, though not much; John found he became terribly aggressive and depressed if he drank more than a few pints, it was too much of a reminder of his initial deep grief so he avoided it. Lestrade had tentatively begun asking John for his opinion on some cases again, just little snippets of medical advice; John was surprised to find that he enjoyed it, there was always a pang of loss that Sherlock wasn’t there, but it added interest to his otherwise fairly pedestrian life.

There was a pivotal moment, a couple of months after Sherlock’s death, when John had to tackle the issue of Sherlock’s room. He took a deep breath, it was time, he’d ignored it long enough. He opened the door to Sherlock’s room and slowly looked around, taking it all in. Over the past few weeks, he’d gradually shuffled Sherlock’s things around to make space for himself. He hadn’t thrown anything away, well nothing that wasn’t hazardous, but things had sort of gravitated to corners and the mantelpiece. He hadn’t been able to bring himself to do anything about Sherlock’s bedroom though, he liked to go in there sometimes and breath in the essence of Sherlock, remembering. He smiled as the memories assaulted him again, like they did every time he came in this room. At first it had been unbelievably painful but over time the pain had eased and now the memories were almost entirely pleasant.  
He sat on the edge of the bed for a few minutes, thinking about what he wanted to achieve. He didn’t want to remove any of the Sherlock-ness of the room, but the bedding really did need changing and John had caused himself several injuries standing on, or trying to avoid standing on, various strange objects scattered across the floor.

Taking a deep breath, John stood up and began to strip the bed. This was going to be the hardest part, removing the scent of Sherlock from the room. When he’d woken screaming or breathless and sweating from another nightmare, he’d sought solace here, wrapped in the smell of his friend. He’d done it enough times that the bedding actually smelt more of John than Sherlock now and was long past needing a wash. A short while later John looked in satisfaction at his handiwork, he did like hospital corners. He frowned a little as he realised that the bed would remain pristine for some time now, it wouldn’t be rumpled and dishevelled within a few hours like every previous time John had made it. Sherlock always took a perverse pleasure in undoing any neatness or order John imposed on his world. John shook his head, put the bedding in to wash and started clearing the floor.

After an hour or so John looked round the room, it was still chaotic and undeniably Sherlock but at least he could probably walk across it without doing himself an injury. There was also a smaller risk of the bed actually walking out of its own accord. He was just about to leave the room when something caught his eye, on top of the wardrobe, just sticking out a little. He hadn’t noticed it before; he’d probably dislodged it whilst trying to move the shirt that had been trapped under the wardrobe’s foot. He reached up, sighed, pulled up a chair, stood on it and tried again. He pulled down the object, it was a riding crop made of black leather. He sat down on the chair looking at the crop, turning it over in his hands. He’d only seen this once before, in the hands of its former owner, Irene Adler, “The Woman”. A strange combination of emotions washed over John in those seconds, he smiled as he remembered Sherlock wrapped in a sheet at the palace, remembered punching him outside The Woman’s house; then he remembered her and Sherlock together and he felt a stab of…what? Pain? Remorse? No…jealousy. Not of Sherlock but of her, The Woman. The only woman who had ever got close to Sherlock as far as he was aware. He was jealous of her, jealous of the contact, the intimacy she had shared with Sherlock. If he hadn’t already been sitting down, he would have had to.

He was jealous, jealous of someone else being attracted/attractive to Sherlock. Even though she was gone, Sherlock had kept this piece of her, a reminder of someone who had touched him, both mentally and physically. John shook his head to clear it, he couldn’t think like that, she was gone, Mycroft had told him so, she would never be a threat or a distraction again. He sat in the chair staring blindly at the crop he was turning over in his hands, thinking hard, remembering. When had his feelings changed? When did being amazed and impressed become more? When had he started fancying his flatmate? He couldn’t pinpoint a specific moment; it had been a slow, gradual thing. Though if he was totally honest with himself, he had probably been attracted to Sherlock from the second he met him, he just hadn’t let himself know that until now. He lifted his head, his eyes focussing on the room again. He took a deep breath. He…he loved Sherlock. Not like a friend, though he was his best friend, but this was more. Bloody hell, how had he not noticed, not realised. The crop fell to the floor as John put his head in his hands.

Some time later, John managed to pick himself up, put the crop and the chair back where they’d been and go and sit on the sofa. He sat there almost motionless as the room darkened, frowning seriously. Sometime in the early hours of the morning he seemed to reach some sort of conclusion, his expression cleared and he smiled. He, John Watson, loved Sherlock Holmes. More than that, he was in love with Sherlock. Bloody typical he hadn’t realised before he’d gone and died. He smiled again. Despite all the time that had passed and everything that had happened, despite visiting his grave several times every week, despite the constant sympathy of all around him, John had never really believed that Sherlock was actually dead. He just couldn’t bring himself to believe that someone so brilliant, so clever, so talented couldn’t have found a way out, a way to fool the world.

Still smiling, John headed upstairs to bed and slept, he slept for hours, no nightmares, no flashbacks, no sweating or screaming just peaceful slumber until the sun woke him shining through a gap in the curtains.

As the months went on, John filled his life with work. Work at the surgery with Sarah; work with Lestrade and the rest of Scotland Yard; he’d also started volunteering at a couple of homeless shelters in the evenings, offering medical advice and treatment to the people who passed through. Strangely this last was the one that made him feel closest to Sherlock. He had had his homeless network and John felt he was continuing the contact in his own way. It was challenging, seeing people in such a vulnerable state, but it gave him a great feeling of satisfaction. After his nights at the shelter he always slept well; deep, dreamless sleep with no nightmares, it was a relief as he was often tormented by images of Sherlock on other nights. Always apologising to John, claiming to be a fraud, falling, dying. It never got any easier waking from these nightmares, knotted in sweaty bedding, reaching out for his friend. He survived though, was less distressed by them if only from familiarity.

And so his life settled into a pattern of working, occasional nights at the pub with Greg or Sarah, evenings at shelters and never quite enough food or sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock paced the lounge of the small cottage impatiently. It only took him about 3 strides in each direction to cross the room. He was waiting for a call which would hopefully tie up another filament of Moriarty’s tangled web. He looked at the clock on the wall for the twentieth time in a few minutes and sighed before theatrically flinging himself into the armchair on one side of the room. He reached out and gently flicked the laptop on his left to wake the monitor. There was a slight lift at the corner of his mouth as John walked into the shot of the lounge at Baker Street. Sherlock gradually stopped fidgeting as he relaxed watching John going about his business, oblivious to his viewer. Half an hour later, John had made his dinner and Sherlock was asleep in the chair, a faint smile on his full lips.

He’d been in the cottage for some months now, in a remote part of northern Scotland, miles from any sort of civilisation…apparently. However, this particular little cottage was a little deceptive, it had a remarkable amount of technology in it and the small meadow behind it sometimes doubled as a helipad. The Holmes’ brothers independently were alarmingly thorough; when they worked together they were frightening. All of the extras that the cottage had were essential though, for Sherlock to have access to what he needed: information. Information to trace Moriarty’s web, to eliminate the threat to those he loved, to make them safe. Information to keep his phenomenal intellect occupied so that he didn’t turn in on himself in boredom and frustration.

Mycroft had provided the infrastructure for Sherlock’s own web of surveillance and data collection. He knew that Sherlock was uniquely placed now to search out the insidious agents of the consulting criminal and hopefully neutralise them, or enable Mycroft to do so. He also gave Sherlock access to his own surveillance of 221B, knowing how important John had become to his brother and hoping that being able to see him would provide some of the effects that the doctor’s presence had had on the younger Holmes. He wasn’t entirely sure that this was for the best, having a rather better idea than Sherlock what his loss would do to the doctor in question.

Sherlock had involved him quite early in his plans, when he realised the resources that would be needed to pull off his little “magic trick”. Mycroft had quite enjoyed aspects of it, especially getting to spend some time with his brother when they weren’t at each other’s throats; it had reminded him of their childhood, when things had been simpler, easier. The reality of the fall itself though had been hard, even knowing his brother was safe, seeing the body had been remarkably emotive. Seeing John had been devastating. The elder Holmes had had to make difficult decisions before, had sacrificed innocent people for the greater good, when it had been necessary, but it was a lot harder when you knew the innocents in question and had to face their pain afterwards. Sherlock hadn’t considered that part at all; he’d been completely focussed on the plan and defusing Moriarty’s threat. Mycroft couldn’t blame him, in fact his brother’s naivety in some areas was part of his charm. He wished that he could have protected him from all of this, saved him from the pain he had to suffer, but he couldn’t, they all had to follow this to the end now, to finish what Sherlock, and Moriarty, had started.

Mycroft was right, Sherlock had not considered the aftermath of his “death”, other than neutralising Moriarty’s threat. He had realised that those close to him, those he was protecting, would be upset by it, but hadn’t appreciated the power of their grief. He thought he understood grief, had experienced it himself when his father died. He had been deeply affected, losing his father had been painful, he had experienced new emotions, feelings of loss and anger. He had analysed them, labelled them as grief and then put them away. There was no point in continuing to grieve, that wouldn’t change the situation, wouldn’t bring his father back so he put the emotions away and got on with his life. He had assumed that others would do the same, though in hindsight that had been a foolish assumption as most people rarely did things as he did.

He had been shocked by John’s grief, it seemed endless and bottomless, tearing him apart from within. Logically, it served no purpose to rail against death, it was inevitable but John threw himself against its immovability again and again and again. It astonished and pained Sherlock watching John fall apart without him. He had known that John cared for him, he had said that Sherlock was his best friend and constantly called him “amazing” and “incredible”, but the depth of his affection had been much greater than Sherlock had realised judging by the intensity of his grief.

Sherlock had also been surprised by his own response to losing John. Although John was alive he was still lost to Sherlock, at least for now. He had hopes, faint at the moment, but hopes none the less, that one day they would be reunited. In the meantime, however, he couldn’t contact him in any way, couldn’t let him know that he was alive, couldn’t risk Moriarty’s men finding out. John’s grief was proof to the world that Sherlock was dead, that he was no longer a threat. So for now he was without his blogger, his right hand man, his best (only) friend, and it hurt. It actually hurt, a physical pain that Sherlock couldn’t explain away with logic. He realised, as he watched John suffer, just how much the doctor meant to him, how important he had become. He found himself talking to John as if he was there, in the room with him. He talked to the image of John on his laptop, though it was strangely unsatisfying when he didn’t respond. This hadn’t bothered him when he had been “alive”, John’s presence hadn’t been necessary for Sherlock to have a conversation with him, now it seemed that it was. He also found himself reacting to things as if John was there, reprimanding him or giving him that look, the “bit not good” look. When John had actually been with him, he had been easy to ignore, now that he wasn’t Sherlock found himself responding to what John would have said if he’d been there. He had tried to start smoking again, the isolation being ideal to revive his habit, but had felt John’s disapproving glare and stopped. It seemed that John’s effect was actually more profound in absentia. Strange.

The consulting detective found that he had mixed feelings about his faked death. He had been so caught up in the preparations and execution of his plans that he hadn’t really thought about the aftermath. Now he had little else to do but think, until a tangible lead could be acted upon he was stuck here in the middle of nowhere with just his own thoughts for company. This wasn’t inherently a problem but it did allow him time to consider the fall in detail. It had gone incredibly well, with Moriarty’s suicide removing the greatest threat immediately, but Sherlock didn’t feel pleased about it. He should do, he had found a way to outmanoeuvre the finest criminal mind he had ever encountered, had saved the lives of those Moriarty had threatened and managed to stay alive to appreciate it, but he didn’t. Well, he did appreciate that he was alive and could continue to remove Moriarty’s influence from the world, but he didn’t appreciate the beauty of his solution. Knowing the hurt that his actions had caused those closest to him muted the thrill of his “magic trick” having been so effective. It really had been a magic trick, a rather grand and potentially dangerous one but a trick none the less. Sleight of hand and misdirection, the tools of the magician, had proved remarkably effective, with the help of his brother and Molly. His usual smug satisfaction at a successful solution to a difficult problem was absent in this case. Another symptom of the significance and influence of John Watson in his life. Sentiment. He snorted at the thought.


	3. Chapter 3

About eighteen months after Sherlock’s death John had gone for a drink with Sarah after a shift at the surgery. They’re relationship had settled into a strong friendship, they shared their work and a few interests and were comfortable together. Their earlier attempt at a romance had been almost forgotten over the years. They were interrupted in their discussion of a particularly entertaining patient by a petite blonde coming over to talk to Sarah. She introduced the newcomer as her old friend Mary, Mary Morstan. John had no objection to her joining them, he had been struck by her appearance immediately, and they had a lovely evening. John had a smile on his face as he left the pub that evening.

A few weeks later the three of them met up again, deliberately this time. John found Mary to be wonderful company; they had similar tastes in books and films and shared a dry sense of humour. Sarah didn’t say very much that evening but she smiled a lot. When Mary mentioned a film she wanted to see that weekend but hadn’t been able to find anyone to go with, John gallantly offered to accompany her. Sarah had the good grace not to grin too broadly. Arrangements were made and a lovely evening was had by all.

The film turned out to be terrible, but the date was a great success. It was followed by dinner the following week then a more entertaining cinema visit later in the month. A few months later they were regularly spending nights together at Mary’s flat. They had spent time at Baker Street but John couldn’t shake the image of Sherlock watching them or, even worse, Mycroft, so he never felt comfortable enough to ask Mary to spend the night there. She didn’t push him on it, or anything else Holmes-related. She understood Sherlock’s importance in John’s life and seemed happy to accept his strange influence, even from beyond the grave.

John, for his part, was contented in a way he hadn’t been for a long time, though there was always a little niggle at the back of his mind, tugging away. He dismissed it, figuring he hadn’t been in a relationship for quite a while and was adjusting to accommodating someone else in his life. As time went on, however, the little niggle kept niggling. He didn’t want to look too closely at this naysaying voice in the back of his mind in case it damaged the fragile stability he’d managed to maintain for some time now, but he knew the day would come when he would have to face his fears and his doubts. “But not today”, he kept telling himself, “not today”.

He and Mary had been seeing each other for nearly a year when she brought up the idea of them living together. It was initially an almost throw-away comment, but John knew she’d been thinking about it for a while. It was a logical next step in their relationship, it made sense. It would be cheaper, they’d see each other more, it would shut up all of their friends, but...John really couldn’t put his finger on what exactly was the problem, but he instinctively shied away from moving in with Mary. It was obvious that her moving into 221B wouldn’t be an option, they barely spent any time there together, it was John’s place, not theirs. So, Mary’s flat then, but that didn’t feel right either. John could come up with any number of arguments to support this feeling; it was further to the surgery than Baker Street, it was still very much Mary’s flat, there wouldn’t be space for John to make it his own and so on, but that wasn’t really the problem. They could easily find somewhere else to live, somewhere a little bigger maybe, between their jobs, that they could make their own. Still, this triggered alarm bells in John’s head. The subject came up more and more often, Mary getting less and less subtle about it. Eventually the inevitable happened and they had a blazing row, their first proper row, over dinner. It ended with Mary running out of the restaurant in tears, saying that John couldn’t bear to let go of Sherlock, that he was still more important to him than she was. John considered following her but the bill needed to be paid and he thought he’d probably do more harm than good if he tried. By the time he got out onto the street there was no sign of her. He sighed and walked home to Baker Street.

Mary’s words went round and round his head on the way back, was she right? Was he really trying to hold on to Sherlock? Was that what was stopping him committing himself fully to her? He was still turning these thoughts over in his mind as he opened the front door, climbed the stairs and let himself into the flat. He was on automatic pilot and was slightly surprised to find himself, some time later, sitting on Sherlock’s bed with a cup of tea in his hand.

Sherlock, it always came back to Sherlock. The thought of leaving this flat forever, leaving this space that they had shared, it nauseated him. It didn’t matter how long he had been gone, Sherlock was always going to be the most important person in John’s life. He loved Mary, he really did, but it was a safe love, a simple love. He could imagine another world, another John Watson, where he came back from the war and didn’t meet Sherlock, didn’t run around London after a mad man shooting people and generally getting into trouble. In this other world, he could see his other self meeting Mary and being completely happy and satisfied with her. Moving in together, getting married, having children even. But now, in this world, the world where he had met Sherlock, nothing else was ever going to be good enough, exciting enough, dangerous enough. Life with Sherlock had never been boring; rarely safe, often infuriating, but never boring. He had been challenged on a daily basis in every way imaginable and it had been glorious. How could any mere mortal ever follow that? He sighed deeply, knowing what he had to do. He felt stupid for not realising earlier that this couldn’t possibly work, that he had been kidding himself. He felt guilty for wasting Mary’s time, for leading her on, even though he hadn’t realised that that was what he had been doing.

But still, not today. He drank his tea, wrinkling his nose that it had gone cold while he’d been thinking. He put the mug down, kicked off his shoes and laid back on Sherlock’s immaculately made bed. He fell asleep almost immediately, smiling slightly.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock had been following John and Mary’s relationship with interest. Possibly a little too much interest. Initially he’d been pleased when he deduced that John had started a relationship with someone he’d met when out with Sarah one evening. It was a sign that he really was getting on with his life, moving on from his time with Sherlock. But as the relationship continued and developed, as John spent more and more nights away from Baker Street Sherlock became rather less pleased and considerably more annoyed. Eventually he had to concede that he was jealous.

It was probably fortunate that a good lead took him out of the country for six months at that point, if he’d been in the cottage for much longer he may have asked Mycroft to put surveillance in Mary’s flat and he wasn’t sure if he’d have been able to cope with the consequences. Just the thought of someone else touching “his” John turned his stomach.

He didn’t know exactly when he started thinking of John as his. It had taken him a ridiculously long time to realise how deep his feelings for the doctor went. Rather a case of “physician, heal thyself”, detective, deduce thyself. He had always had difficulty with emotions, sentiment and the like, but he had usually managed to understand others’ motivations. When considering himself, however, he seemed to be rather short sighted. He knew John cared for him and had just assumed that what he felt was the same. Yes, he loved John, but he loved Mrs Hudson, they weren’t that different, he just cared for John more. A lot more. Eventually he had to concede that what he felt for John bore as much relation to what he felt for Mrs Hudson as Buckingham Palace did to a garden shed.

He had been quite distressed to find that Mary and John were still seeing each other when he returned to the cottage. As far as he was aware, this was the longest relationship John had ever had, unless you counted Sherlock, which he didn’t, obviously. He was reassured, however, when he saw the tension in John’s shoulders when he was with Mary, the increasing frequency of frowns, the more nights at Baker Street. He understood that being happy at John’s relationship failing was a bit “not good”, but he still felt a warmth at the idea of John being single again, being at 221B every night he wasn’t working, being his again.

John took a deep breath before ringing Mary’s bell. He’d gone over and over in his head how to start this conversation, how to break up with her, how to do it gently. He’d failed spectacularly to find any sensible option so had decided to just go and see her and be honest. He owed her that.

“Hello?” her voice was distant through the tiny speaker.

“Hi, it’s me…John.”

The buzzer sounded and he pushed the door open. Upstairs she was waiting in the open doorway for him, a slightly puzzled look on her face.

“Did we have a date today?” she asked.

“Erm, no. No. I just…I wanted to talk to you.” She looked a little surprised and a little more sad but put on a brittle smile and moved out of the doorway to let him into the flat.

“Tea?” she asked, heading for the kitchen.

John smiled, the English answer to every situation, “Yes please.” He sat down on the big sofa in the living room. He didn’t take his coat off, he may not be staying long.

A couple of minutes later Mary came and sat next to him, putting two cups of tea on the table in front of them. She raised an eyebrow at him in query, “So…?”

John took a deep breath, then let it out. “So. Um. I’ve been thinking…”

“Always a dangerous occupation.”

She wasn’t going to make this easy for him, but he smiled, “Yes, thank you.” He shifted round to face her better, “I’m sorry about the whole moving in thing. I know it makes sense, I understand that it’s the next logical step in our relationship, but…” he inadvertently tangled a hand in his hair, “I can’t. I’m really sorry, but I can’t move in with you.” He realised what he was doing and put his hand back down in his lap. He looked into Mary’s face, trying to read her expression, waiting for a response.

She made him wait for what seemed like an age but was probably only a few seconds. “Why?” It wasn’t a recrimination, just a question.

“Because it wouldn’t be fair on you. Because, although I love you, and I really do love you, I love someone else more. It would be cruel of me to pursue this any further, to waste any more of your time. I can’t make you happy, I’ll only end up hurting you.” He’d been looking down at his hands, twisting in his lap, but now he looked back up, into her eyes. He was surprised to see that she was smiling. It wasn’t a joyous smile, it was a knowing one. There was sadness in her eyes, but she was definitely smiling. He frowned in confusion.

“Don’t look so surprised, I’ve always known I was second best. I just hoped that that would be enough for you, for us both. I suppose I knew I was kidding myself, you’re not a man to compromise, especially not on something as important as love.”

“You knew? But…how?”

“Oh, John. You talk about him so much, anyone can see how important Sherlock was to you, still is. I could never hope to compete with that, I didn’t try. I have to say I didn’t realise exactly how you felt about him until recently, until we started talking about living arrangements. Nothing short of a direct meteor strike is going to get you out of Baker Street and once I worked that out, the rest became obvious. Were you and he…?” she faded to silence.

“Together? A couple?” Mary nodded. John sighed again, “No, no we weren’t, no matter what everybody else thought. I didn’t know I was in love with him until after…he died.” He reached out and took her hand in his. “I’m so sorry, Mary. I thought I could do this. I wasn’t looking for a relationship, but when you came along it was just so…easy, so comfortable. I didn’t have to pretend with you, didn’t have to work hard to be someone I’m not. You’ve always just accepted who I am and taken what I could offer without asking for more. You’ve been so patient with me, but it wasn’t fair of me at all.”

Mary squeezed his hand. “I’m just as much to blame. I always knew that I couldn’t have all of you, that he had part of you and always would. I should have realised that this, us, wouldn’t be enough after him. But I love being with you, you’re so kind and caring, you always put others first and you never accept anything but the best, from anyone or anything. I can’t expect you to accept less than the best in a relationship, even if you’ll never have what you really want, you shouldn’t “settle” for something less. You’re too good for that John Watson.”

“You are a truly amazing woman. I really wish that I wasn’t such an idiot who fell in love with the most exasperating man on the planet because I’m an adrenaline junkie and he enables my habit.”

They both smiled at that and squeezed hands again. They sat in silence for a while, their tea forgotten.

Mary broke the silence. “There’s just one thing I don’t understand.”

“What’s that?”

“You’re not gay?”, it was a question, just.

“No.”

“And you’re not bisexual either.” John looked quizzically at her, “we’ve been together a fair while and you’ve never looked at a man like that. A few women have caught your eye, but no men.”

“No, not bisexual either. It’s just…”, “Sherlock” she finished for him. He smiled.

“Yeah, just Sherlock, but straight, gay, bi, they’re all just labels, boxes to put people in. No-one really ever fits in boxes like that. I’m a soldier, but I’m also a doctor, two different boxes. Labels are just to make other people feel better about things, that they know you, to make you less threatening.” Mary nodded, encouraging him to keep going.

“And as much as normal people don’t fit in boxes easily, Sherlock really doesn’t. No rules apply to Sherlock, he’s just…him. If you try and put him in a box, he’ll just wriggle ‘til it breaks then walk away, with a smirk on his face. He’s unique. Really unique, and yes, I know unique isn’t a graded thing, you either are or you aren’t, but he really is the most unique person on the planet.” John’s eyes had lost focus as if he was looking at something that wasn’t entirely present.

Mary brought him back to earth by speaking, “You know you talk about him in the present tense?”

“What?”

“Sherlock, you still talk about him in the present tense even though he’s been dead for nearly three years.”

John didn’t have an answer for her, he’d never been able to think of Sherlock as something that was gone, he was still such a presence in his life, he couldn’t consign him to the past tense. He just shrugged at Mary and she smiled, accepting that even John didn’t really understand.

Gradually they moved onto less personal topics, like the weather, before John had to go to work. He thought as he walked away from her flat that he was far too lucky, she had made that so easy for him. She had every right to scream at him, hit him, throw him out of her flat but she had done none of these things. Instead she’d patiently listened while he told her that their entire relationship had been effectively based on a lie. He sighed and briefly wished he could be more normal, been able to marry Mary and settle down to a life of domestic bliss. Then he shook himself and just thanked his lucky stars that he may still be able to have her as a friend, despite having treated her appallingly.


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock sat watching the screen of his laptop, showing the sitting room of 221B. John moved view holding a fresh cup of tea. He sat in his chair and picked up a journal from the coffee table in front of him. He sat, almost motionless, for over an hour, only moving to sip his tea or turn a page. Sherlock sat, moving even less than John, absolutely transfixed. He briefly wondered what Mycroft thought of his favourite past time, but shrugged the thought off immediately, he didn’t care what Mycroft thought. Anyway, he was probably too busy with his own new obsession, a certain Detective Inspector of their mutual acquaintance. Sherlock was actually rather pleased with Mycroft and Greg’s relationship, he was sure that it would make his life a lot easier if his brother had someone else to concentrate on and didn’t spend quite so much time worrying about him.

John had ended his relationship with Mary; Sherlock was ridiculously pleased about this. They still saw each other, over a coffee in some neutral territory, they were seeing if they could be “just good friends”, and from what Sherlock had observed, it seemed to be working. He wasn’t surprised, John was just too likeable for anyone to give him up easily. He frowned, remembering that he had, although it had been anything but easy. He ended that train of thought and went back to observing his best friend, his John.

John had reverted to a single life with remarkable ease. Keeping Mary in his life had been an amazing surprise; she had rung him a week after they split up, asking to meet up for coffee. Again he had briefly wished that he was able to give her what she wanted, but dismissed the thought quickly, knowing it wasn’t possible.

He continued to work every hour he could, volunteering when he wasn’t at the surgery. He saw his friends regularly and life became almost normal. He still woke up screaming and sweaty at least once a week, dreaming either of Afghanistan or Sherlock falling, though the latter was rather more common than the former these days. He still had trouble eating properly and he wasn’t really looking after himself. Three years down the line and he was still just going through the motions, waiting. Waiting for his miracle, for his Sherlock.

Sherlock had spent some time travelling, personally finding out information and dealing with the consequences, but after a rather too close incident, he’d been injured and had been forced into his current exile to recuperate.

This pattern had been repeated over the lengthy interval it took to track down all the pieces of Moriarty’s chess game. Sherlock preferred to be as hands on as possible, venting his frustration and anger on those involved in bringing him to this position. He had taken several lives in this time, all necessary, all without undue malice or violence. He was clinical in his approach to what he now considered to be his job. The job of clearing every trace of Moriarty from the planet, to make it safe for those he cared about, for everyone, so that he could go home.

He surveyed the papers around him, he was close now, really close. Piece by piece, lead by lead, he had gradually disentangled the strands of Moriarty’s network of felons and malcontents. Mycroft and Lestrade had provided information and backup and now only a few key players remained at large. He sat in the chair, his hands steepled beneath his chin, a slight frown creasing his brow. He sat almost completely still for quite some time with only the occasional flick of a finger or eyebrow as he sifted through facts and memories making the last few connections to tie up the case. Eventually he opened his eyes and smiled. A frantic few minutes followed as he texted, e-mailed and phoned various people to chase up the last few links. Satisfied, he sat back down and clicked open the surveillance on Baker Street. 

Mycroft smiled at his brother’s latest communications, it looked like the end was in sight now. He spent several minutes in discussion with Lestrade as to how best to co-ordinate their actions then instructed Anthea accordingly. He made some notes in the folders piled up on his desk then made a few more phone calls, finalizing arrangements for Sherlock’s homecoming. He was actually looking forward to seeing him, though he was sure that a few minutes of his company would remind him of why this was an unusual sentiment. He stood up, straightened his jacket, picked up his umbrella and left his office.

A few days later, John was moving around the kitchen, making tea; old habits die hard. Where would an Englishman be without his tea?

He turned and walked back into the lounge, glancing at the television as he headed to the sofa. He stopped dead in his tracks, the mug falling from his hands as his world narrowed down to what was on the screen – Moriarty. It probably only took a fraction of a second, but it felt like an age as time slowed down; the mug falling, bouncing on the rug, hot tea splattering the floor and John ‘s feet. The heat brought him back to reality as he swore profusely at the scalding of his ankles. He looked around to find the remote and turned the volume up. Moriarty’s face was just an inset now, to one side of a newsreader. Now a second picture appeared next to it – Sherlock, in that bloody ridiculous hat. John could just see his own arm at the edge of the picture; it’s funny what you notice sometimes.

After a few seconds he picked up the thread of the story, just as the screen changed to show Lestrade speaking to the press, just a short clip but it was enough to put a huge grin on John’s face. Sherlock had been cleared, they had found the evidence to prove that Moriarty was a master criminal and not an actor hired to play the role.

Finally, finally the world knew what John had known all along. He was surprised to feel a tear trickling down his cheek. He wiped his hands over his face and took a deep breath then stood to deal with the spilt tea. He had just made a replacement and settled back on the sofa to pay proper attention to the telly when there was the sound of someone coming up the stairs to the flat.

“Mycroft”, John said as the man himself walked in without knocking.

“John. I see you’ve heard the news,” Holmes senior said, looking pointedly at the damp stain on the rug.

John rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t bring himself to make any sort of snide comment.

“Yes, I assume you were involved in this in some way.” He nodded towards the telly.

“I may have played a small part in it yes, but Inspector Lestrade must be given most of the credit. He’s been extremely persistent in this particular case.”

John turned to look at Mycroft who was still standing in the middle of the room, radiating officialness, impeccably dressed as always. “Yeah, I imagine he would have been. I suspect that you played rather more than a small part, but you’ll never admit it so I won’t bother trying to get you to. Would you like a cup of tea?”

“That would be lovely, but I actually have some rather pressing business elsewhere. Business which involves you, my dear doctor.”

Oh bugger, pressing business with Mycroft was never a good thing. It was never avoidable though. John sighed. “What pressing business? And where? Do I need to get changed? And can I finish my tea first?”

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you what or where; changing isn’t necessary and I suppose a few minutes won’t make much difference so yes, you can finish your tea.” Mycroft showed no sign whatsoever of relaxing.

“You can sit down you know? The sofa doesn’t actually bite, not since your brother vacated the premises anyway”. It still stirred up strong feelings referring to Sherlock, reminded him of the vast hole he had left in John’s life. He sighed, then drank his tea in a couple of gulps. Better get this over with sooner rather than later. He put his mug in the kitchen sink and grabbed his coat as Mycroft led the way out of the flat.

Of course there was a sleek black car waiting at the kerb as they left the door of 221B, the back door was opened as they approached revealing “Anthea” inside. John sighed again as he was, politely, bustled into the back seat. Mycroft was remarkably predictable sometimes. He settled back into the black leather as the car pulled silently away from the kerb.

John was getting increasingly annoyed with Mycroft’s silence as they were driven to who knows where in gathering darkness. Eventually the car stopped outside what looked like an abandoned industrial building somewhere extremely un-salubrious. John knew better than to make assumptions where Mycroft was concerned, whatever it looked like, this was not just an old factory. He followed as Mycroft left the car and entered the building through a battered-looking door, swinging his umbrella as he walked. John rolled his eyes, always putting on a show, but then he was a Holmes, what else did he expect? As usual John was struggling to keep up with Mycroft’s long strides but he clenched his jaw and tried not to jog.

Mycroft led him along corridors, down staircases and through doors until John didn’t have any idea where he was in relation to the door they had come in through.

Just as John was about to put his foot down and demand that Mycroft stopped and gave him some explanation, Mycroft opened a door and gestured at a collection of rather uncomfortable looking chairs in an otherwise empty room. John shook his head slightly, he’d be damned if he was going to give Mycroft even more of a height advantage.

“What the hell is going on, Mycroft? Why have you dragged me halfway across London to this…whatever it is?”

John turned to look at Mycroft and was rather surprised to see Lestrade next to him, rather close to him in fact. He frowned a little, then shook his head and addressed himself to Lestrade instead, figuring that he was much more likely to give John some answers.

“Greg, what’s going on? Why are we here?”

Greg looked like he was about to answer when another voice stopped him in his tracks.

“Ah, such a complicated question, John. One that has puzzled great minds for centuries”.

John thought his heart had stopped, he’d certainly stopped breathing. Impossible, it couldn’t be. But that voice, no-one else had a voice like that, one that vibrated through every fibre of John’s being, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

“Breathe, John. Breathe.”

John drew in a deep breath, closed his eyes and, very slowly, turned round. He took another deep breath before opening his eyes, hardly daring to look in case this turned out to be a dream, or some cruel joke. He looked up, then up a bit more. There, in front of him, as large as life, was Sherlock Holmes. He looked tired, and ridiculously thin, his amazing cheekbones more pronounced than they had been. His skin was even paler than John remembered; his hair shorter but still curly and unruly. John reached a hand out and tentatively touched Sherlock’s coat, pulling his hand back immediately, almost as if he had received an electric shock. He looked Sherlock up and down slowly, taking him in.

Everyone else in the room was standing very still, almost holding their breath, waiting to see how John would react. They were all rather surprised when he launched himself at Sherlock with almost a growl and started hitting him. Initially the blows were hard and well-aimed, striking Sherlock on the jaw, shoulder and chest. Sherlock winced a little, but didn’t make any move to defend himself. John kept hitting, over and over, his blows getting less controlled and forceful as he started to breathe heavily and sob quietly. Eventually he was leaning on Sherlock’s chest, his fists clenching and unclenching in Sherlock’s coat lapels, crying, his breath coming in shuddering gasps.

Sherlock released the breath he had been holding and wrapped his arms around John, holding him tightly against his body. He leant down to put his face in John’s hair, whispering into it.

“I’m sorry John, I’m so sorry.”

After a few minutes, John had calmed, his breathing was more even, though there were still tears rolling down his face. He seemed to come back to himself, shaking his head a little and letting go of Sherlock’s coat. He turned his head to look up at Sherlock’s face, moving his hands up to place them on each of Sherlock’s cheeks. He stared into Sherlock’s eyes for several moments, then pulled his head down and kissed him full on the lips.


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock had spent the previous couple of hours restlessly pacing the room in Mycroft’s “secret bunker”, he snorted at the thought. He was anxious; it was an unusual emotion for him. Soon he would see John again, his blogger, his best…only friend, his John. He was excited at the prospect but nervous at what John’s response would be. He was one of the few people who could surprise Sherlock, he had done numerous times. Sherlock knew that his reappearance would be difficult for John, he had seen what his “death” had done to him. He expected anger, probably quite a lot of anger, but he hoped for some more positive reactions too.

Sherlock threw himself dramatically into one of the battered chairs, effortlessly elegant, as always. He steepled his hands beneath his chin and considered the possibilities. He sat like this, almost motionless, for over an hour before resuming his pacing. After what seemed like an eternity, he heard footsteps approaching through the building. He listened for a moment, then greeted Lestrade just before he entered the room.

Lestrade sighed as he came in, “Some things never change, dead or not you’re still irritating and brilliant”.

Sherlock smirked at him. “How long?”

“About 5 minutes I think. You OK?”

Sherlock dismissed the question with a frown and an imperious wave of his hand. Lestrade knew better than to push the point.

They stood in silence for a few minutes before footsteps again sounded in the corridor outside.

Sherlock smiled a small smile and moved into a dark alcove in the corner of the room furthest away from the door. Lestrade stayed where he was, just inside the door, awaiting the new arrivals.

Mycroft strode into the room a few moments later, followed by a slightly out of breath, and clearly annoyed, John.

Mycroft gestured at one of the chairs, for John to sit down, but he refused.

Sherlock couldn’t help smiling; he had missed John dreadfully and was delighted to see him again. It caused a surprisingly strong reaction. Sherlock had expected to be moved by seeing John, in the flesh, but was startled by the strength of his response. He was much smaller than Sherlock remembered; in his memories John always filled the room. The surveillance pictures had given him an idea of John’s general state but it really didn’t do justice to the reality of the person in front of him, he was much thinner than when Sherlock had last seen him, gaunt and somehow, defeated looking. He felt a pang of distress at the damage he had done to his beloved doctor, then he put these thoughts away for further consideration later as John spoke.

“What the hell is going on, Mycroft? Why have you dragged me halfway across London to this…whatever it is?”

Getting no reply from the elder Holmes, he turned to DI Lestrade, who he had just noticed.

“Greg, what’s going on? Why are we here?”

Before Lestrade could say the words hovering on his lips, Sherlock stepped out from his corner and spoke, he couldn’t refuse such an opening.

“Ah, such a complicated question, John. One that has puzzled great minds for centuries”.

He saw John tense up, every muscle in his body tightened at the sound of Sherlock’s voice. John stood completely motionless, not even breathing. Sherlock frowned a little,   
“Breathe, John. Breathe.”

As if he had been waiting for the command, John took a deep breath. He then, very slowly, turned round to face Sherlock. His eyes were tightly closed. He drew another breath before opening them and looking at his erstwhile flatmate. Sherlock saw a myriad of emotions cross John’s faced in that brief moment, shock, pain, disbelief, joy, anger. John reached a hand out and touched his coat, briefly, before snatching his hand back as if stung. Sherlock tried to stay still, he didn’t want to make this any harder for John than he already had. He was expecting the blow when it came, had seen John tense his arm and turn to put his full weight behind the punch to his jaw. Sherlock had been hit before, repeatedly, but this was an onslaught. John lashed out at him again and again. Sherlock braced for the impacts but didn’t defend himself or move away, he just took everything John had to give him, until he had run out of energy and clung to Sherlock’s coat like a life belt.

Sherlock wrapped his arms around John, hugging him close, as he cried on his chest. He leant down and whispered into John’s ear, “I’m sorry John, I’m so sorry.”

He held John in his arms, as tightly as he could without hurting him, until the sobbing subsided. John finally let go of Sherlock’s coat and turned his tear-stained face upwards towards Sherlock. Sherlock’s breath caught in his throat at the raw emotion in John’s eyes, there was so much there, there was anger, as expected, relief, affection but also more, a fiery glare which spoke of a love far greater than Sherlock had ever seen in his friend’s eyes before; more than he had expected, so much more than he had ever hoped. Once again the soldier had surprised the consulting detective. Then he did it again, taking Sherlock’s breath away with a kiss so deep and tender he couldn’t think any more. Sherlock’s world shrank to a bubble containing him and John, wrapped together; his whole being focused on the feeling of John’s lips on his own, flooding him with sensations he’d never experienced before. His arms tightened around John, pushing them closer together, intensifying the kiss. He put all his feelings into that contact: his regret at hurting John, leaving him; his pain at their separation; his joy at being together again; his love for this compassionate man who never doubted him, never let him down despite Sherlock’s distance, his betrayal.

A quiet cough from Mycroft brought the kiss to an end; he was going to have enough trouble getting this image out of his head without things going any further.

Sherlock grinned over John’s shoulder. “Jealous, brother? Has Greg been holding out on you recently?”

He turned his attention back to John, his eyes bright, “That moustache has got to go…it scratches.”

John couldn’t help but laugh. “Damn, I’ve missed you, you total bastard.” He pulled Sherlock down into another, rather more decorous kiss.

“Home?” Sherlock asked.

“Home.”


	7. Chapter 7

Their journey back to Baker Street was almost silent. They sat in the back of one of Mycroft’s cars occasionally looking at each other, at some point Sherlock reached across the seat and took John’s hand in his, squeezing gently. John smiled at him and squeezed back. He took the opportunity to look at Sherlock properly, taking his time. He’d already noticed that he was even thinner than before, but clearly still fit, there was muscle on the bone…just. He looked a little older, more lined than before, as if the three years had weighed heavily on him. John suspected they had, he didn’t know what Sherlock had been doing, but he didn’t think he’d been taking it easy. His hair was shorter and showed some evidence of having been dyed fairly recently. The most surprising thing was what Sherlock was wearing. John had never seen him in anything other than his pyjamas (or a sheet if nothing else was to hand) or an impeccable suit but now he was wearing jeans and a t-shirt with a scruffy hoodie on top. John had to smile, at the t-shirt in particular, it was a black shirt with a long-toothed, angry looking skull on it. John wondered if Sherlock knew the cultural reference he was wearing. “The Punisher” had been a favourite of John’s in his younger years. He considered the implications and his smile faded; was that what Sherlock had become? He shook the thought away and squeezed the long-fingered hand in his own again, reassured at the familiar presence. He was just wondering where their relationship would go now that he had made his feelings rather clear but his thoughts were soon derailed when Sherlock turned and looked into his eyes. John wished he knew how Sherlock could smoulder like that, then stopped thinking altogether as Sherlock leant in for another kiss.

They were dropped off at the back of Baker Street; the front was still besieged with press, though their numbers had reduced as the day had gone on. They crept through the back door, through Mrs. Hudson’s flat (fortunately she was away visiting her sister), then on up to 221B.

John fumbled with his keys, eventually managing to open the door. Sherlock pushed him into the flat, grabbing him and turning him around, pressing him back against the door, closing it behind them. In seconds he was kissing John, hungrily devouring his mouth. John moaned at the onslaught, he’d dreamed of this, of kissing Sherlock; it was even better than he had imagined. But of course Sherlock was good at kissing, he was good at everything! John took a few seconds just to appreciate the sensation of Sherlock’s lips on his, his tongue in his mouth, then he began to kiss back with a vengeance, showing that in one area at least he could rival his flatmate. They spent what felt like aeons like that, up against the door, snogging each other senseless. Eventually they came up for air, both breathless, with swollen lips and dilated pupils. John looked up into Sherlock’s ever-changing eyes, today they were a cerulean blue, barely visible around the blown pupils. John didn’t think he’d ever seen anything more beautiful. He put a hand in Sherlock’s hair and pulled him down for another round of competitive kissing, both of them putting 3 years’ worth of pain, anguish and now relief into their actions.

After a few more minutes of intense snogging, hands had started to wander. John tightened the hand he had in Sherlock’s hair and moved his other one round the back of his waist, pulling him closer still. Sherlock had one hand behind John’s neck, and the other was creeping up the back of his t-shirt. Sherlock moved the hand on John’s back down, just inside the waistband of John’s jeans. He felt John shiver at the touch and bite Sherlock’s lip gently. Sherlock groaned at the slight pain, he moved his hand further down and wrapped it round John’s firm buttock, it was John’s turn to groan.

John was beginning to lose himself in the sensations of Sherlock, he’d waited so long for this, he was like a man in the desert who’d found an oasis, and he never wanted to leave, but…

John pushed Sherlock away from him, “Wait, wait. Not like this.”

Sherlock looked crestfallen; John spoke quickly to clarify the situation, “Oh, Sherlock. I didn’t mean I don’t want to do this, I mean I don’t want to do it like this. I don’t want our first time to be a quick fumble up against the door.”

Sherlock looked calmer but still not certain.

“I don’t know about you, but I don’t intend to be with anyone else, ever. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. I want our first time together to be…”

“Romantic?” Sherlock said, with a slight smirk.

John rolled his eyes, “Yes, romantic. We’ve got time now, unless you’re planning to die again sometime soon?”

Sherlock shook his head, looking very slightly ashamed. John was surprised, but pleased. At least Sherlock seemed to appreciate what his absence had done to him; understood the importance of this moment, this relationship.

“So we can take our time, we can have a quickie up against the door another day, today I just want to spend time with you, I want to hear what you’ve been doing for the last 3 years. I want to take our time with the physical side; it’s a big adjustment for me.”

Sherlock smiled, almost shyly. John was seeing a side of him he’d never seen before, a side he hoped no-one else had ever seen, would never see. The tender heart of his beloved detective, for him alone. He put his forehead on Sherlock’s chest and waited until both of them had got their breathing under control. Sherlock wrapped his arms around him and kissed the top of his head.

“I love you John Watson”, he whispered into John’s hair.

John looked up into Sherlock’s eyes, amazed at what he’d said. “I love you too, you mad genius.” He stretched up and kissed the taller man gently.

“Right, tea.”

Sherlock laughed, “Still solving the world’s troubles with tea?”

“Everything is better after a cup of tea.”

Sherlock stepped back and allowed John to move into the room. He looked Sherlock up and down critically. “You could do with a shower and a change of clothes.” He paused, “and a lot of food. Go and sort yourself out and I’ll sort some dinner.”

“And tea?”

“That goes without saying.” He smiled. Sherlock smiled back then headed to the bathroom, shedding clothes on the way. John sighed and picked them up.

A fair while later they were cosied up together on the sofa, Sherlock was freshly showered and shaved, wearing his old pyjamas and dressing gown. John was distressed by just how thin he had become in his absence but had been slightly mollified by Sherlock devouring his curry. John didn’t think he’d ever seen Sherlock eat so enthusiastically before. He took advantage of the detective’s distraction to get another really good look at him. He was frighteningly thin, though still toned, John had no idea how he managed it. He looked…fragile and, John couldn’t think of a better term, haunted. He’d obviously been through a great deal during his “death”. John knew the look of a man who had had to kill, he’d seen it often in the army and in the mirror but to see it on Sherlock was devastating. He desperately wanted to know what he had been doing, but was worried it might break his heart, again. He sighed.

“I’ll tell you anything you want to know, John. Anything.” Sherlock had finished his meal and turned his full attention to John. Under that ablating gaze John felt remarkably reassured. There was Sherlock, just as he had been, despite the trials and stresses of the last few years, those eyes were unchanged.

John blinked and shook his head slightly to marshal his thoughts. “Why? And how? But mainly, why?”

Sherlock took a deep breath, he looked just past John, slightly unfocussed. “Moriarty. He…he had assassins, they were going to kill…everyone I cared about. Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade and” he looked back at John at this point, “and you. If I didn’t die, they would kill you, all of you. I had no choice. The only way to keep you safe was for me to die.” John waited, knowing Sherlock hadn’t finished, knew what John was thinking and was going to answer. “I couldn’t tell you, you couldn’t know I wasn’t dead. You needed to be convincing in your grief, to be able to convince the world that I was really dead. But most of all, I knew that if you didn’t think I was dead, then I’d never be able to keep you away, keep you safe. I knew you’d find me, or try to. I couldn’t risk that, couldn’t risk your life.” He closed his eyes for a moment, composing himself again. Then he looked back up at John.

John almost winced at the vulnerability in Sherlock’s gaze, he’d never seen him look like that before, still intense, still wild, still Sherlock, but young, open and, something John never wanted to see again, scared.

“Oh, Sherlock. I could strangle you, but…thank you.”

Sherlock looked astonished, he really hadn’t been expecting that. “You’re thanking me?”

John smiled, “Yes, I’m pretty surprised myself, but yes, I’m thanking you. For knowing me so well, for putting me first, for protecting me. I’m not sure anyone’s ever done that before. So, thank you.” He took Sherlock’s hand in his and lifted it up to kiss it, gently. It was a surprisingly intimate gesture.

Sherlock was momentarily speechless. Only momentarily. “I thought you’d be angry, you should be angry.”

“I spent a long time being angry. I was angry and hurt and desperate and lonely, then I stopped being angry. Well, mostly. I thought a lot while you were…away. I realised how much you mean to me and it made me furious with myself that I’d wasted so much time, that I hadn’t made the most of the short time we had together. I decided that if I got another chance that I would make the most of it, I’d tell you how I felt and I wouldn’t waste valuable time being angry.” He half-grinned, half-frowned, looking at the damage he’d done to Sherlock’s face, “I almost managed it as well.”

Sherlock looked briefly confused, then smiled, “Don’t worry about that, I’ve had much worse, believe me. I expected something along these lines. I put you through so much…” he stopped, running out of words to express his feelings. John pulled him into a tight embrace, murmuring soothing words in his ear. Sherlock relaxed into his doctor’s arms.

They eventually calmed enough to separate and settled back on the sofa, still touching, arms and hands and knees. They talked, about trivial things (“You’ve let the skull get all dusty, John”), about serious things (“How many people have you killed?”). Sherlock was a little reluctant at first, but once he seemed convinced that John really wasn’t going to get angry or leave, he talked and talked. He told John about his hunt for all the players in Moriarty’s game, where he had been, what he had done. John listened avidly, delighted to see Sherlock relaxing into something more like his old self, animated and passionate. He was amazed over and over again by his flatmate (boyfriend, partner?)’s exploits. They more than explained the terrible physical state he was now in. Eventually Sherlock reached the end of his tale; it seemed to John that the telling had somehow eradicated some of the worst effects of the actions themselves, Sherlock seemed lighter, less drawn. It also looked to have used up the last of his physical reserves, his eyelids were drooping a little and he had slumped on the sofa, exhausted.

“Right you, bed.” John sternly instructed, standing up. Sherlock smiled up at him, trying to be alert but failing fairly spectacularly, “Will you be joining me, doctor?” John had no idea how he managed it, but Sherlock positively smouldered, even in his fragile state.

John laughed, “You really think you’re in any condition to do anything other than sleep right now?” He leant over and pulled Sherlock up from the sofa, “Come on, let’s get you settled.” Sherlock made a small sound of protest, but allowed himself to be steered to his bedroom. Still his bedroom, even after 3 years away; he was strangely touched by John’s reverence for his things, his space. At this moment in time he was particularly pleased to be back in the only place he’d ever really thought of as home, finally home, and finally time to rest. He collapsed on the bed, sprawling across it in classic Sherlock fashion. John smiled fondly at him.

John manoeuvred Sherlock so that he could remove his dressing gown, hanging it on the back of the bedroom door. He managed to wrangle the duvet out from under his nearly comatose flatmate and tucked him in tenderly. He stood up to leave but Sherlock darted a hand out and grabbed his wrist.

“Stay…please.”

John stopped where he was, not that he had much choice, even in his enfeebled state Sherlock still had a grip like steel. He turned back towards the bed and looked down at Sherlock, the man he now knew he loved, his heart melting at the softness of the gaze directed up at him. How could he possibly refuse? He sighed a long-suffering sigh, rolling his eyes for added effect. “Alright, but no funny business, you need rest.” He didn’t manage to be anything like as stern as he’d intended, but then he rarely did where Sherlock was concerned.

He undressed quickly, stripping down to his pants. He thought back to how this day had started, like almost every day for the last 3 years and thanked any entity which might be listening that it was ending like this, then he lifted the edge of the duvet and got into bed. Sherlock grunted slightly in protest as John’s cold feet touched his legs, but then pulled him into a tight hug. There was a bit of wriggling and rearranging to accommodate all eight limbs and get both of them comfortable, but they eventually managed to settle themselves. Sherlock sighed contentedly and within a few minutes was breathing steadily, fast asleep. John smiled, it was a rare sight, even rarer to witness at this close proximity. He spent a few minutes thinking through the day’s events, amazed both at the events themselves but also at his, mostly, calm response to them. He double checked, he really was absolutely contented and relaxed. Here, in Sherlock’s bed, in Sherlock’s arms, he felt completely at home. He smiled and drifted off into a dreamless sleep.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here comes the smut - please don't read if this sort of thing bothers you!

John woke slowly in the morning, gradually becoming aware of his surroundings. He remembered the night before and smiled.

“Good morning Dr Watson”, John opened his eyes to see Sherlock examining him closely.

“Morning Mr Holmes”, he couldn’t help smiling.

Sherlock’s hand was on the pillow next to John, he stretched out his long fingers and stroked John’s moustache. “Why?” he asked quietly.

John frowned a little, “I had ‘flu last winter, pretty nasty, was spark out for about a fortnight. When I finally recovered I had some serious facial hair. I was going to shave it all off but…” he paused, looking at Sherlock, “but Mary liked it, so I kept it.”

“It’s definitely got to go then.” Sherlock smiled. John giggled, “Alright then, it goes.” He was promptly dragged out of bed to the bathroom, stumbling as he tried to get his balance. A few minutes later his face was lathered and Sherlock was holding a razor to his face. “Ready?” he asked.

“Go on,” John replied, he didn’t dare nod his head in case Sherlock sliced something important off. John watched as Sherlock delicately, gently and with extreme precision, shaved off his moustache. When he’d finished and John had wiped his face clean, he turned the shorter man round to face him, examined his face closely, then held it between his hands and leant down to kiss him. It was a tender kiss, soft and brief, but it spoke volumes. “Much better,” he said then swept off back into the bedroom. John marvelled at how he could still sweep when he just had pyjamas on. He seemed to be able to put the image of a swirling coat or dressing gown into your head even when it wasn’t there. He shook his head, smiling, some things never changed.

As he was already in the bathroom, John took the opportunity to get showered. By the time he’d dressed and got back downstairs, Sherlock had installed himself on the sofa, fervently tapping away at his laptop. There were two cups on the coffee table. John did a double take, Sherlock had made tea, for two! Grinning like an idiot, he picked up his cup and sat down in his armchair. He took a sip, just how he liked it. That just made him smile even more. Sherlock may be thin as a rail, all points and angles, but it seemed like his absence had softened some of his spikier personality traits.

“Sooo…” John started, not quite sure where to start.

Sherlock looked up from his laptop, smiled, “So?”

“What happens now?”

“We drink tea, I expect you’ll try to get me to eat something, then…romance?” His voice faded a little at the last word.

John nearly choked on his tea, Sherlock looked affronted at his amusement, “Sorry Sherlock, but that wasn’t quite what I meant. I wondered how you were going to go about letting the world know you’re not dead. But you’re right, I am going to try to get you to eat something, several somethings if I can, and I’d be delighted to indulge in some…romance later on.”

“Ah, right. I was planning on leaving most of the not being dead stuff to Mycroft, he does so enjoy that sort of thing. Also the paperwork’s a nightmare. I’m sure he and Anthea will be having a lovely time sorting it all out.”

John was a little surprised at this, the old Sherlock would have moved heaven and earth to avoid Mycroft having any influence in his life, but it seemed that something else had changed during his death. John was pleased if they had a less confrontational relationship, he had always thought that Sherlock would benefit from being closer to Mycroft. He was, after all, pretty much the only person who could compare to Sherlock intellectually; but maybe that was the problem. Anyway, if their forced co-operation had improved familial relations, John was relieved. He’d often thought it must be lonely for Sherlock being the only person able to do what he could do; having someone to share that with would be good for him, he thought Mycroft would enjoy it too. He’d always seemed more unhappy with their antagonistic relationship than Sherlock, though he hid it well.

“So until it’s all sorted out, you’re confined to barracks?”

Sherlock smiled, “Yes, I’m afraid you’ll have to do the shopping and anything else that involves going outside for now.”

John laughed, “So just the same as before then?”

Sherlock just smiled and went back to his laptop.

“What are you doing?” John asked, putting his empty mug back on the table. That may have been the best cuppa he’d ever had.

“Writing up the last few days. I’ve not had time to record anything for a while, things got a little…busy.”

“Hmm, I suppose that’s one word for it.” His stomach grumbled at that point, he looked at his watch and was surprised to see that it was nearly 1pm. “How long did we sleep?”

“About 12 hours. Well, you slept for about 12 hours, I slept for 10.”

John was surprised again, but then it had been a rather stressful day. Then he realised what Sherlock had just said. “You were awake for 2 hours before me?” Sherlock nodded. “And you did what? Just watched me sleep?”

“Yes, it was remarkably not boring. You have a very expressive face John, it is fascinating to watch.”

John blushed slightly at this, “I’ll take that as a compliment, I think.”

“Oh it is, John, it is.”

“Right. Lunch. What would you like to feign disinterest in?”

Sherlock smiled as John headed into the kitchen, “I’ll leave the choice up to you as you’ll be the only one eating it.”

In the end they both ate a substantial amount, Sherlock mostly pinching things from John’s plate, John didn’t mind as long as Sherlock ate.

Lestrade came round after lunch, fighting his way through the reporters still camped outside. Speedy’s was doing a roaring trade in coffee and sandwiches for them all.

“…no further comment”, Greg was saying as John opened the front door and ushered him inside, shutting the door against the flashbulbs as fast as he could.

“No better out there then?” he smiled at the DI.

“No. Only to be expected. Wait until they find out he’s back, it’ll be twice as bad then.”

John frowned at the prospect, knowing Greg was right. Looked like they’d be using the back door quite a lot for a while.

They walked up to the flat where Sherlock was now lying across the sofa, hands steepled under his chin, just like old times. Lestrade smiled at the familiar scene.

“Some things never change!”

“Inspector, how nice to see you.” He barely glanced at Greg, “What does Mycroft have to say?”

John was a bit confused by this. He sighed, he was going to have to get used to large portions of his life becoming inexplicable again. Never mind, it wouldn’t be boring. He was interrupted in his thoughts by Sherlock.

“Oh, John, I’m disappointed in you. The Detective Inspector has been sleeping with my brother for about 18 months now and you haven’t noticed. I thought you might have learnt something from living with me, but it appears not.”

“I was a little bit preoccupied, what with you being dead and all. I’m afraid making the effort to be bothered to live was about as much as I could manage. Sorry to have let you down with my lack of observation.” It came out rather more harshly than he’d intended, clearly he was still a little angry at Sherlock, but the consulting detective just quirked an eyebrow at him and carried on. John smiled an apology at him.

“So?” Sherlock turned to Greg, “what news? Am I still dead?”

Greg smiled, it really was good to have Sherlock back, though he was sure he’d be cursing him soon enough. “It takes a little while to undo these things, Sherlock, Mycroft’s working on it, but it will probably take a few days to resurrect you completely.” He smiled. “Any idea when you want to go public? With all the threats out of the way, it’s up to you now.”

Sherlock looked at John, “Well, what do you think? Tomorrow?”

John smiled, “I’d have thought you’d want to exploit the situation for longer, make everyone run around after you for as long as possible.”

“But everyone will run around after me anyway? I don’t want to have to hide any more, John. I’ve been hiding for a long time.”

John was a little embarrassed about making light of the situation, he kept forgetting that Sherlock hadn’t been able to be himself while he was away, had had to run and hide and pretend.

“Don’t worry, John, it wasn’t all bad.” John smiled, he’d forgotten about Sherlock’s mind reading skills. He was also surprised that he was trying to make John feel better, he really had softened while he was away, at least where John was concerned. That made him smile more.

“So, tomorrow then?” Greg asked, getting a little uncomfortable at the atmosphere which was developing. He’d forgotten what it had been like being in a room with John and Sherlock, the tension was almost palpable. After their reunion the previous day he should have expected it though, they’d been practically sizzling when they left Mycroft’s warehouse. He didn’t want to think about what these walls had witnessed last night. He was saved from further speculation by Sherlock.

“Yes, tomorrow. Afternoon, I think, we’ll be having a lie in in the morning.” He dismissed Lestrade with an imperious wave of his hand.

John showed him out, blushing furiously, “Sorry, he’s not developed any tact in the last 3 years. Thanks for coming round.”

Greg was at the front door by now, hand on the handle, John clearly had something else he wanted to say though so he waited. “Go on then, say it.”

John looked surprised, “Sorry, um. You and Mycroft?”

Greg smiled, reddened slightly, “Yes, me and Mycroft.” He let go of the door handle and turned back to face John fully, “When Sherlock was…” “Dead”, John filled in for him, “Yes, dead, Mycroft kept in touch, passing on information about Moriarty’s organisation. We didn’t know it was coming from Sherlock. He didn’t get in touch often initially, the Met were only needed occasionally, normally Mycroft used his own means when Sherlock needed help. We spent quite a bit of time together when he wanted help, we got on. One thing led to another and…”

“You ended up sleeping with the government. Well, congratulations!”

Greg smiled shyly, “Er, thanks.”

John smiled warmly at him, he was glad Greg had found someone he could be happy with, though he was rather surprised that it was Mycroft. “We’ll have to found a support group, “How to live with a Holmes””

Greg grinned at that, “Yeah, that might be a good idea. They’re not exactly everyday types are they? Sometimes I think they should come with an instruction manual. Right, better face the baying hounds. I’ll probably see you tomorrow afternoon then.”

John gave Greg’s shoulder a squeeze as he opened the door and fought his way through the press mob to his car.

John headed back upstairs.

“Right,” he said as he sat down next to Sherlock again, “yesterday we did why, now I want to know how.”

Sherlock feigned ignorance for about a millisecond before giving in to his desire to show off. He got a little carried away with his enthusiasm at a couple of points and had to suffer some “not good” glares from John, reminding him that it had been his death he was faking and this had been somewhat distressing to others.

John was suitably impressed though, Sherlock was almost preening by the end of his explanation.

“Well, I always knew you were a bloody genius, shame it had to come to that though.” John paused for a moment, looking pensive.

“You can’t kill Mycroft, John, not without my help.” Sherlock smirked.

John’s mouth quirked up in a half-smile at this. “I don’t suppose you’ll help me just yet?”

“No, unfortunately he was actually quite useful while I was away and I’d need a better reason to bump him off than he upset you by helping me fake my death.”

“Shame, though as long as he helped keep you alive, I can probably be persuaded to forgive him…eventually.” John moved nearer to Sherlock and leant in to him.

Sherlock obligingly put his arm around John’s shoulders, kissed the top of his head before returning his attention to his laptop. John smiled and dozed, curled up against his flatmate.

John peered out of the front window, frowning.

“I forgot you can’t go out, and I don’t really want to with that lot still out there.” He nodded towards the press, still lurking outside the front door. “It’ll have to be take away for dinner. What do you fancy?”

“You.” Was the curt reply.

John smiled and turned back towards Sherlock. “I meant for dinner.”

Sherlock sighed, “Do I really have to eat?”

“Yes you do, you weigh about as much as one of my legs at the moment, you really need to eat regularly. You don’t have to have a lot, just regular food or I’ll have Mycroft admit you to hospital with an eating disorder.”

Now he had Sherlock’s full attention, “You wouldn’t?”

John raised an eyebrow, “I would if was the only way to stop you dying of malnutrition. So, what do you want for dinner.”

“Something from Angelo’s.”

John smiled. “Right, I’ll order something. Are you going to get dressed?”

“Why? I’ll only need to get undressed again afterwards.”

John rolled his eyes, “Right, fine. It would have been nice to have a nice romantic dinner with my back from the dead flatmate, but never mind, we’ll just eat out of cartons on the sofa like nothing happened.” He headed up to his room for no particular reason other than to leave Sherlock alone to think for a few minutes. He rang their order in to Angelo’s, who still did special delivery for 221B even after Sherlock’s supposed death. He sat on his bed and flicked through an old medical journal until the doorbell rang.

John picked up his wallet and headed down to open the door. He was greeted by flash bulbs and microphones again, there were still a fair number of reporters camped around the doorstep. He shielded his eyes with one hand, while trying to pay for dinner with the other. It was a rather clumsy exchange. Once he’d sorted out dinner, he paused, took a deep breath and addressed the gathered journalists.

“I’ll give you 10 seconds, then I want you all to bugger off and leave me alone, and you can quote me on that!”

He took a quick look at his watch then answered the first question he heard in the din, though they were all along the same lines: “How do you feel about Sherlock being found innocent?”

“I’m glad that Sherlock has been vindicated, that everyone else now knows what I always knew. Sherlock Holmes was a great man and died to rid the world of the monster Moriarty. Any other questions?” He ignored the responses, “Right, 10 seconds are up, now piss off and find some actual news to report.”

He closed the door, quite firmly, taking a few calming breaths before heading back upstairs to the flat.

“Sherlock? When you go public about being alive, we’re not going to be able to get out of the flat for weeks! Sherlock?” John walked through the lounge and into the kitchen where he stopped dead in the doorway.

Sherlock was standing behind the table, in a black suit, with the purple shirt (of course, John’s favourite). The lights were off and the room was lit by a candle in the centre of the table, there were plates and cutlery laid out and a single red rose was in a glass next to the candle.

“Where…when…how?” John started, “I don’t want to know, do I?” He smiled at Sherlock.

Sherlock smiled back, pulling a chair out for John to sit, “No, you probably don’t. Anyway, it would spoil the romance.” He emphasised the last word with heavy sarcasm, but John knew he didn’t really mean it.

John dished out their meal and sat down, Sherlock sitting opposite him. It was rather reminiscent of their first dinner together at Angelo’s, though the atmosphere was even more charged this time round. They chatted remarkably comfortably over their meal and, wonder of wonders, Sherlock ate a whole meal without complaint, he even produced a bottle of wine from who knows where, John knew for a fact there hadn’t been any wine in the flat yesterday. They finished the bottle between them, John suspected he had had the lion’s share, but he could probably cope with it better anyway, and a little Dutch courage wouldn’t go amiss in the situation.

John was feeling distinctly warm and fuzzy, it was rather pleasant. He was just starting to get a little nervous about what was coming next when Sherlock got up and cleared the table. As if that in itself wasn’t surprising enough, when he leant over the sink it gave John a marvellous view of that remarkable arse! He suspected it was deliberate, everything was with Sherlock, but he’d really missed that arse, it made John want to do bad things, very bad things indeed. Sherlock turned round and leant back against the kitchen unit, he raised an eyebrow at John.

“So…I believe we have some unfinished business, John.”

John smiled as he stood up, moving to stand right in front of Sherlock, pressed up against him. “I believe we do.” He stretched up and kissed the taller man.

It was a gentle, tender kiss. Sherlock bent down further and instigated a slower, deeper kiss. They came up for air, still pressed together against the worktop. Sherlock broke the silence, “My room or yours?” he rumbled, his voice ridiculously low and oh so sexy. Sherlock’s voice always sent tingles down John’s spine but now it was like being plugged into the mains, he was sure his hair was standing on end.

“Mine’s nearer,” Sherlock answered himself as John didn’t seem to be capable of replying. John nodded, he didn’t trust himself to speak just yet. Sherlock pushed him away a little to step round him, then took him by the hand and walked backwards to his room, pulling John with him.

John closed the bedroom door behind him, still being led by the hand by Sherlock. Finally they stood, face to face, in Sherlock’s bedroom, both breathing a little heavily. John finally managed to engage his brain enough to think coherently.

“Have you got…um,..I mean, if we’re going to…oh bloody hell…” he was blushing furiously. Sherlock thought he was absolutely gorgeous when he blushed, but took pity on him and answered his unfinished question.

“I took the liberty of moving some of your…supplies down here, just in case.”

John smiled, “Of course you did. Right. Well.”

“John?”

“Yes, Sherlock.”

“Shut up.”

John did that little half-smile of his, “Make me.”

Sherlock did just that, putting one hand behind John’s head and pulling him into a passionate kiss. John put one of his hands into Sherlock’s luxurious curls, moaning against Sherlock’s lips as his tongue invaded John’s mouth. His other hand rested on Sherlock’s hip, squeezing gently. He tried not to think about how thin Sherlock was, then stopped thinking altogether as Sherlock bit his bottom lip, very gently. He couldn’t help but moan again, how did he know exactly what pressed John’s buttons? Again, stupid, Sherlock always knew everything.

John took some control again, slowly taking off Sherlock’s jacket, dropping it on the floor, almost carefully. Then he started on the buttons of that ridiculous shirt, still kissing Sherlock as he did so. Multi-tasking made him rather slow with his hands, but that was OK, they had all the time in the world. He slowly kissed down Sherlock’s neck, taking in his smooth, ivory skin and breathing in the heady scent that was Sherlock: expensive soap, fine tailoring, a hint of cigarette smoke (he’d have to nip that in the bud) and something wonderfully masculine and just…Sherlock. He hummed against Sherlock’s skin, moving across his collarbone and down the centre of his chest. He paused briefly to look up at Sherlock and was just floored by what he saw. The detective was looking down at him, pupil’s dilated, a look of rapture on his face. John loved being the focus of Sherlock’s attention, but he’d never felt it this intensely before, it could be seriously addictive.

John shook his head slightly to clear it, then bent back to the task at hand, diverting from his downward course to lick one of Sherlock’s nipples; that earned him a moan, then another as he sucked gently before moving across to suck at the other one. After what could have been seconds or half an hour he moved back to kissing down the soft trail of hair sprinkled on Sherlock’s chest. He knelt down on the floor, pulled the tails of Sherlock’s shirt out from his waistband, resting his hands on the taller man’s lower back, just above his belt while he explored the naval in front of him. Sherlock’s breathing was quicker now, his skin warming under John’s hands.

John moved his hands around, following the line of Sherlock’s belt, until they were on the buckle. He drew in a deep breath, then exhaled, causing goosebumps on Sherlock’s stomach, who gasped in surprise. John smiled, undoing the belt buckle, then the button and fly of Sherlock’s trousers. He was slightly surprised, though later he thought he probably shouldn’t have been, to find that Sherlock wasn’t wearing any pants. He sat back on his haunches and just drank in the view for a few moments, “Bloody hell, Sherlock, is any bit of you not absolutely gorgeous?”

Sherlock paused before replying, clearly rather distracted, “I think you’ll have to make that judgement yourself.” His voice was deep and breathy; it went straight to John’s libido making him breath heavily and his cock twitch.

He smiled, “I think I’ll enjoy that! Initial observations suggest that the answer is “no”, but I’ll keep you posted.” Sherlock chuckled quietly, making bits of him jiggle tantalisingly. John’s mouth was watering in anticipation as he knelt back up again. He pushed at the waistband of Sherlock’s trousers gently and they fell to the ground under their own weight, leaving Sherlock almost naked and utterly glorious. John licked his lips then leant forward until he was breathing on Sherlock’s substantial erection; he put one hand on Sherlock’s left hip and the other reached round to rest on his right buttock. He took one last breath in before he opened his mouth and wrapped it around Sherlock’s cock. He’d never done this before, but he knew what he liked so tried to do that. He was encouraged by the noises Sherlock was making, needy, desperate noises. He licked up the shaft, around the head and back down again, then took Sherlock in his mouth again, sucking. He couldn’t accommodate all of Sherlock’s cock in his mouth so used the hand from Sherlock’s hip to wrap around the base, moving it in time with his head. He managed to sneak another look upwards on a back stroke; Sherlock had his eyes closed and was biting his bottom lip, a look of concentration on his face. His hands were clenching, almost unconsciously, one in John’s hair, the other on his shoulder. John smiled, well tried to, then got back to the task in hand, and mouth. He increased the pressure and speed of his strokes, moving his other hand to stroke between Sherlock’s legs, from his arse to his balls and back. John felt when the tension increased in Sherlock’s muscles, his knees buckled. John held him up as best he could, trying to maintain contact while moving Sherlock back to sit on the bed, his legs spread around John’s head. A few seconds later Sherlock gave in to the pleasure and came down John’s throat, shouting his name. John did his best to swallow it all, almost succeeding. He lapped at Sherlock’s diminishing cock and wiped round his mouth before standing, on rather wobbly legs.

Sherlock fell back on the bed, finally opening his eyes as John collapsed next to him. John grinned at him, he smiled back. The last time John had seen him this unfocussed had been when Irene had drugged him. He pushed that memory away and concentrated on what was in front of him, Sherlock looking thoroughly dishevelled, debauched and utterly delicious. Why on earth had they not done this before?

Sherlock wriggled around, kicking off his trousers and socks and turning so he was lying on his side in the bed facing John. He reached out and dragged John towards him by his belt, John giggled, then gasped as Sherlock’s hand brushed across the front of his jeans, across his still very erect penis.

Sherlock quirked on eyebrow up, then proceeded to remove John’s clothing very efficiently, throwing them all over the side of the bed to land who knows where. Once John was disrobed to his satisfaction, he pulled him in close again. He spent several moments just staring into John’s eyes, scrutinising him carefully. He stroked down the side of John’s face gently with the back of one hand, the other moving down John’s shoulder and arm then across his stomach before finally gently stroking his cock. John shuddered at the intimacy of the contact. He groaned as Sherlock wrapped his long fingers around and couldn’t help thrusting through his fingers. Sherlock smiled and tightened his grip a little. After witnessing Sherlock’s undoing, it didn’t take long for John to climax, swearing as his orgasm shook him.

Sherlock produced a flannel from somewhere, he really had planned ahead, wiped them both relatively clean, then he wrapped his arms around John in an almost uncomfortably tight hug.

“Thank you John, that was…”

“Bloody amazing!” John replied. He stroked Sherlock’s back, hands roaming trying to get to know every inch of what he thought he’d lost. “I love you, Sherlock.” He lifted his head from Sherlock’s neck to plant a kiss on his beautiful lips.

Sherlock smiled, still looking fuzzy and blissed-out. “I love you too, John.” He kissed John back, doing truly wicked things with his tongue which had John moaning again.

John was astonished when he felt Sherlock’s cock twitch again, hardening against his stomach.

“Bloody hell Sherlock,” he half giggled, “haven’t you heard of a refractory period?”

Sherlock actually blushed a little at that, John hadn’t thought that it was possible to embarrass him.

“Yes, but apparently my body hasn’t, at least where you’re concerned.”

“Hmm, well what do you want to do about it?” John wriggled suggestively against Sherlock, grinning.

Sherlock smiled almost shyly, John couldn’t get enough of this side of him, it was absurdly endearing to see the usually overbearing, dominant detective being tentative and coy.

“What would you suggest, Doctor Watson?”

John’s grin became positively lascivious at this, he turned over to rummage in the bedside drawer for a moment or two. He turned back and handed Sherlock condoms and lube.

“Deduce.” He said as turned again to lay face down on the mattress. To emphasis his point he wiggled his now upturned arse.

Sherlock was silent and for a minute John thought he’d gone too far, he turned to apologise but stopped when he saw Sherlock’s face. Clearly he hadn’t overdone it at all, well only in terms of possibly overloading Sherlock’s rarely exercised libido. He looked at John, licked his lips, “Are you sure?”

John smiled, he was surprised to find that he was completely sure, he’d been nervous about the possibility of this earlier but now, now he wanted Sherlock so badly he didn’t care about anything else. “Oh yes, I’m sure. Please fuck me Sherlock.”

Sherlock actually whimpered at this, he moved to kneel between John’s legs. John spread his knees apart to help. He heard the snap of the lube being opened and closed, then gasped as Sherlock’s now very cold finger rubbed on his opening. It disappeared almost immediately, “Sorry, was that not…”

“No, no, Sherlock, it’s fine, just cold.”

He heard the tension leave Sherlock’s voice, “Ah, right.” There was more clicking and some squelching noises as Sherlock warmed more lube on his hands. Then the finger was back on John’s arse, circling gently. “Better?” Sherlock asked.

“Much, thank you, oooh.” Sherlock had pushed a finger inside him, it felt…weird. Not bad, but strange. Then the finger moved and it was less strange. After a little while Sherlock pushed another finger in. John was getting used to the sensations now and was relaxing into it, then Sherlock brushed the edge of his prostate and he swore.

He could feel Sherlock smiling smugly. Not long after there were three fingers in his arse. He’d never thought this would be something he’d ever be doing, but it wasn’t unpleasant, especially as Sherlock was using his other hand to stroke over John’s back and legs and buttocks.

Once he felt John was well prepared, Sherlock pulled his fingers out, gently. He turned John over so that he was facing up again, John looked surprised. Sherlock rolled on a condom, pulled John’s legs up so that his knees were bent and spread, then knelt between them. He lubed up his now fully hard cock then leant down and kissed John. “Ready?” he asked breathily. John didn’t trust himself to speak, he just nodded. Sherlock positioned himself at John’s hole and pushed, John bit his lip and tried to relax, it was harder than it had been before, but the look in Sherlock’s eyes, the lust-blown pupils, made it worthwhile. Then he was in, John exhaled heavily and Sherlock pushed further in. It took a little while, but eventually Sherlock was fully seated in John’s arse, he was panting with the effort, sweat dripping off his forehead. It felt incredible. 

Sherlock was relatively inexperienced sexually, he didn’t like to like to be controlled by his body, at its mercy, but sometimes it had to be dealt with, so he did so as quickly and efficiently as he could. He didn’t often feel the need to masturbate, though he had needed to more since John had come into his life, but he had done so out of necessity, to allow himself to think clearly, not be distracted. He had never understood why sex was such a huge part of other people’s lives, why it drove people to extreme acts. Now he understood, now he could feel John around him, hot and tight and welcoming. He also understood that his previous encounters had been so lacking partly because of the lack of emotional connection, a thing he had always avoided. But looking down at John now, seeing his love, his adoration of Sherlock, that made everything different. He smiled down at his beloved, twined his fingers in John’s and began to move.

John had never felt anything quite like this before; unlike Sherlock he understood that affection and love changed sex, had experienced sex both with and without love. But he’d never experienced this level of intensity, but then he’d never had sex with Sherlock before and Sherlock excelled at intensity. The sensation of Sherlock being inside him was just amazing, once he’d adjusted to the intrusion. When he’d linked their fingers together John’s heart had swelled in his chest, he was briefly concerned that he might have a heart attack, but was quickly distracted by Sherlock moving. That…was…amazing! Was this what it felt like to be a woman? Being penetrated, possessed. It seemed that his body was ignorant of refractory periods as well, at least where Sherlock was concerned, his cock was fully hard again, nudging his and Sherlock’s stomachs with each thrust. He heard a groan and was surprised to realise that it had come from him, then he groaned again as Sherlock’s groin contacted his own at the end of its thrust. He was shaking now, trembling with each thrust of Sherlock’s hips, making noises he’d no idea he could make. Later he’d be ear-burningly embarrassed but now, now he just wanted this to last forever. Unfortunately, even though he’d already come once, he didn’t think he’d be able to last much longer. He thought Sherlock was getting close too, had no idea how he was supporting himself any more. He was proved right as Sherlock shuddered, stilled and climaxed, pulsing and twitching inside him. His arms gave way as his orgasm overtook him and the pressure of his body on John’s cock pushed him over the edge as well, coming in spurts between their bodies.

When he had managed to regain control of his limbs, Sherlock gently withdrew from John, disposed of the condom and flopped back down on the bed beside him.

They lay there, still breathing heavily, sweat and semen drying on their skin. John reached to get the flannel again and tried to remove the worst of it, then laid back down again, completely exhausted.

“Fucking hell, why did we never do that before?” he asked when he finally had enough breath to speak.

“I have no idea, but it was a terrible waste.” Sherlock shivered a little, snuggled up next to John and pulled the duvet over them both.

John turned into Sherlock, nuzzling into his neck. “You’re amazing.” He said as he started to doze off.

“So are you. I missed you.”

John smiled sleepily, “I missed you too, you annoying git. Don’t ever leave me again.”

Sherlock sighed. “I didn’t have a choice.” 

John didn’t want to start an argument now, “I know, but next time, God forbid there should ever be a next time, but if there is, I’m coming with you. You never get to leave me behind again, OK?”

Sherlock looked down at his beloved doctor and soldier and smiled, “OK.”

They fell asleep still entwined together.

John woke to the sun filtering through a gap in the curtains. He was still wrapped around Sherlock, though they’d shifted a little in the night, he was now lying across his…his what? Flatmate? John thought that probably wasn’t the appropriate term any more, boyfriend? That really didn’t seem to fit with Sherlock. He was interrupted in his musing.

“John, stop thinking so loudly.” Sherlock demanded drowsily.

John smiled, “Sorry, I was just wondering…what should I call you?”

Sherlock frowned in confusion, “Sherlock.”

John laughed, “Well, yeah. But…for other people. “This is Sherlock, my…” what? Boyfriend, lover, partner, shagbunny, significant other?”

Sherlock made a disgusted face at the last option, “Definitely not “significant other”, boyfriend sounds so…juvenile…” they were both considering how people would react to John calling Sherlock his shagbunny, they giggled a bit, then Sherlock continued, “I suppose partner is the best option, though…maybe, if you don’t mind…someday…” John didn’t think he’d ever seen Sherlock almost lost for words, he was getting quieter as he stumbled towards what he wanted to say, John had to strain to hear when he finally got through his fluster, “I’d like to be your husband.”

John was astonished, they hadn’t had a chance to discuss any long term arrangements since Sherlock’s return and this really hadn’t crossed his mind. But they had both made some fairly serious noises in the rather emotional couple of days they’d had together, so he shouldn’t really have been surprised that Sherlock had already galloped ahead.

“Husband…that would be…lovely.”

Sherlock looked back into John’s eyes and positively glowed. John pulled him close and kissed him, long and deep, then again. Then kissing led to stroking and squeezing and fondling and…other pleasurable activities.

And they lived happily ever after…within a given set of parameters.


End file.
